


Peace Through Tyranny

by amarielah



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Character Tags To Be Added - Freeform, Darkness Level Heavily Chapter Dependent, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Decepticon victory, Drug Addiction, Dubious Consent, Emotional Constipation, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Forced Bonding, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Healthy Relationships, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Post-War, Power Imbalance, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Relationship Tags to Be Added - Freeform, Spark Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Strangers to Lovers, Transformer Sparklings, Transformers Spark Bonds, Unrequited Love, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-01-29 16:07:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21412921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarielah/pseuds/amarielah
Summary: An ancient form of Cybertronian reproduction is rediscovered, and Megatron — despondent in his victory — finds renewed purpose in repopulating his decimated species. Unfortunately, there's a reason why the Senate eschewed the process in favor of the Matrix. It comes with many challenges and compromises, including a level of intimacy that not all Cybertronians would choose of their own volition — let alone based on arbitrary spark compatibility.But Megatron will not be deterred. He will restore Cybertron to its former glory, whatever the sacrifices required.(Or: In a universe where Megatron's coup against Starscream succeeded, the events of Dark Cybertron still make Megatron reassess his legacy. A timely call from Scorponok gives him a path to follow, though the ultimate destination may not be quite what he expects.)
Relationships: Brainstorm/Tarn, Chromedome/Kaon, Cyclonus/Tailgate (Transformers), Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet, First Aid/Vortex, Megatron/Rodimus
Comments: 45
Kudos: 145





	1. Clinical Trials (Cyclonus/Tailgate)

**Author's Note:**

> I've read a lot of 'Decepticons win and enslave the Autobots' fics in the past year, and it made me want to try my hand at something like it. But I also wanted to try and make it a plausible Divergent Canon AU from the mainline IDWverse. (The fact that it gave me an excuse to write some of my weird crackships was just a bonus.) This was the result.
> 
> The subject matter varies wildly from chapter to chapter, depending on the couple being explored. All carry a blanket warning for forced marriage and non-consensual spark interfacing (sometimes even from both parties), but from there it can go in wildly different directions. So please do read the warnings in the notes of each chapter to make sure you want to proceed.
> 
> Additional warnings for this chapter: non-consensual medical voyeurism.

In his more honest moments, Megatron could admit that he hadn’t really thought through what he’d do once his coup succeeded. He could even admit that, on some level, he hadn’t expected to win. Not really.

Then Shockwave had tried to destroy the universe in some unhinged scheme to ‘save Cybertron’ — and the Autobots had allied with Megatron to avert disaster. Some, like dear Bumblebee, had even sacrificed themselves in the process. It was no small blow to Megatron’s pride to admit that the Decepticons would have failed if not for the Autobots. That _all_ Cybertronians would now be dead, except perhaps Shockwave, if Megatron had followed through with his threat to kill them. 

For the first time in his existence, it was making Megatron question the path he’d taken during the war.

A light on his console was blinking, indicating an incoming message. With a sigh, Megatron opened the channel. He was greeted with the sight of Scorponok on his viewscreen.

“Hello, Megatron,” said the traitor.

It seemed almost appropriate, in light of everything else going off the rails, that something like this would happen. “I’m surprised you crawled out of whatever hole you’ve been hiding in to contact me,” said Megatron. “What could have made you so desperate, I wonder?”

“Oh, it’s but a trifling matter,” said Scorponok, smirking. “A colleague and I have simply managed to synthesize photonic crystals.” 

Megatron stared at the viewscreen for several nanokilks, unable to disguise his shock.

“I can see from your expression that you don’t believe me,” Scorponok continued. He raised his hand, displaying what certainly _appeared _to be a photonic crystal in his palm. “I’m more than willing to give you a sample to assuage your skepticism.”

Megatron gathered himself, glaring at the screen. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I do believe you. What good are they without sparks? I have reliable intelligence that the Matrix was the source of the previous batches. But one half was destroyed during an altercation with a deranged Judge Tyrest, and the other is lost.” Well, the now-imprisoned crew of the Lost Light weren’t exactly _reliable_, but the reports he’d heard from reliable _Decepticons _confirmed much of their narrative. 

“My colleague and I deduced as much, as well,” Scorponok said. “But the Senate never actually _lied _about spark splicing being an option. I imagine that the process was simply too..._inconvenient_ for their purposes.”

Megatron resisted the urge to roll his optics. “Are you going to elaborate?” Of course he was. But Megatron knew he’d draw it out endlessly unless the question was asked. 

Scorponok’s smirk widened. “Spark _splicing _is a euphemism. An attempt to make the process sound more clinical and detached than it actually is. In truth, spark _merging _is a far more accurate description.”

Megatron snorted. “There’s no such thing. Any half-baked medic can tell you that such an act would result in death for both parties.”

“In most cases, yes. But, in the rare case of _compatible _sparks, it will lead to a surge of energy that — when released repeatedly and consistently near a strategically-placed photonic crystal — will eventually result in the creation of an entirely new spark.” He quirked an optic ridge. “Of course, it also involves the creation of a permanent psychic bond between the partners, and the one who houses the crystal has elevated energy requirements for the duration — several deca-cycles, on average. 

“Some forged mechs have an extra compartment under their sparks, dismissed for eons as a mere quirk of physiology. But _this _is its true purpose.”

“This is ridiculous,” Megatron sneered. “Are you really implying that the notion of ‘sparkmates’ is something more than a romantic delusion?”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far. Compatibility is statistically unlikely, but not to such an absurd extent.” The seam in his torso began to split apart. “And I understand your skepticism, given our history. But I am deeply concerned with the continuation of our race.” The inner plates were now also parting, revealing Scorponok’s spark. But there was something else beneath it — unmistakable despite being obscured by the overwhelming brightness of its chambermate. Another, smaller spark. 

“My god,” Megatron said.

Scorponok was outright grinning, now. “This is my second attempt. The first was successful, and my dear Donuma is doing _wonderfully_.”

Megatron scowled. “What do you want?”

* * *

Scorponok’s conditions for himself and his ‘colleague’ were simple enough: to be left alone. Megatron doubted very much that Scorponok had abandoned his ambitions, but Megatron’s choices were limited by the fact that Scorponok refused to share the method for creating the crystals. He would deliver them ‘as needed’.

His conditions for Cybertron were far more difficult to swallow.

“You can’t execute the Autobots,” he’d said. “They will be tested for compatibility, and the ones who fail to find a match will need to be kept as collateral to ensure cooperation. We do not have the population reserves necessary to be picky about who contributes to the repopulation efforts.”

That part was fine. After the mess with Shockwave had concluded, Megatron had resolved to spare most of the Autobots. Subject to the conditions they’d imposed upon Decepticons — I/D chips and all — but alive.

It was the next condition that gave Megatron pause.

“I also insist on a full pardon for all Decepticons and ex-Decepticons.”

Megatron glared. “The DJD, as you well know, are not under my direct control.”

Scorponok smiled smugly. “Convince Tarn of the necessity of reproduction for the Cause, then find him a compatible partner. I’m certain that his priorities will change.”

Megatron conceded that he had a point. “The restrictions on fraternization will have to be repealed.”

“Naturally. Though you should be clear from the outset that, while compatibility comes with a predisposition for attraction, the outcomes of the test may not be in line with _existing_ preferences.”

Those last words were said with an air of mockery, which made Scorponok’s meaning clear. Scorponok had no doubt deduced the mech that Megatron had immediately thought of when the prospect of reproduction became something tangible. Any mech with ambition — with _vision _— would consider Optimus Prime to be an ideal reproductive partner. 

Indeed, their offspring would no doubt be glorious. The Phase Sixers of a new generation, after Cybertron had rebuilt, repopulated, and once more turned its gaze outward.

“Noted,” Megatron said cooly, refusing to give Scorponok the satisfaction of a stronger reaction. 

* * *

Megatron had considered sending out a taskforce to track down and capture Scorponok. Anticipating this, Scorponok had informed him that he would delete all information related to the process of crystal synthesis if such an attempt were made — including in his own processor.

Megatron decided that he would capitulate...for now. Even if it meant enduring the humiliation of receiving shipments of the life-giving crystals by groups of organic mercenaries. 

They started tests with just the Autobots and Decepticons. The NAILs would eventually be put to ‘work’, as it were, but only once the actual combatants in the war had led by example. There weren’t enough crystals available yet, in any case. The NAILs outnumbered both factions combined by a significant degree — even with the influx of Decepticons to Cybertron due to Megatron’s victory. It wouldn’t hurt to expand Decepticon numbers before attempting any coercive measures against the NAILs. Especially now that the Colonies had reestablished contact, providing Cybertronian outposts for them to flee to.

The crew members of the Lost Light were the first to undergo testing, following the guidelines provided by Scorponok. Only one matched pair emerged: a minibot who had, if the story was to be believed, been buried in stasis for millions of years, and one of Galvatron’s lackeys.

The former had officially aligned himself with the Autobots, but never seen a single engagement in the war, while the latter was technically neutral. They would suffice.

The lackey — Cyclonus — glared at Megatron when he was informed. “I had thought that the Autobots were perhaps embellishing their stories of Decepticon depravity,” he said. “It seems I was mistaken.”

“Come now,” Megatron said. “It’s clear that you’re fond of the little Autobot. Now he will be yours forever.”

Cyclonus sneered. “To compel such a bond is to render it meaningless.” 

“You will cooperate,” Megatron said, “Unless you’d prefer to watch as Tailgate is smelted down for sentio metallico.” Scorponok had insisted that the newly-replenished Cybertron must have sentio metallico reserves somewhere, but geological surveys had so far turned up nothing. Megatron had no issues with cold construction; it was simply a matter of fact that forged mechs had more resilient frames.

The threat of harming the minibot was enough to ensure Cyclonus’ compliance, though his optics promised future retribution. Megatron was certain that Cyclonus would find a sufficient diversion in his sparkling — assuming that the process didn’t kill him and Tailgate both.

The specifics were beyond the scope of Megatron’s present understanding, but he knew that sparks were either of ‘donor’ or ‘incubator’ types. Cyclonus fell into the latter category, which meant he was naturally suited to providing a newspark with an ideal environment to develop. And, as a forged mech, he already had a small compartment in his spark chamber where a photonic crystal could be placed — just as Scorponok had claimed.

Cyclonus continued to glare, his spark flaring, as Flatline placed the photonic crystal within that compartment. But he offered no resistance to Vortex and Brawl when they led him to the observation room. Even with Vortex’ inevitable off-color remarks.

Megatron instructed Flatline to switch on the video feed, and was met with a scene of nauseating sentimentality. 

“I’m sorry that it’s come to this,” said Cyclonus. “You deserve better.”

“Well...I guess I don’t mind too much, if it’s you.” Despite his words, Tailgate’s body language made it clear that he was afraid. “Do you think it’s true, that we could die? The mean one said that we might die.”

“I don’t think that’s the outcome they desire.”

“What about you? If it works, I mean, and we make a newspark together — if we weren’t being _forced _to do it, would you want something like that with me?”

There was a pause as Cyclonus scowled, then said, “My _only _objection is that it’s being forced upon us.” Smitten, just as Megatron suspected.

“Oh,” said Tailgate, as though this was completely unexpected.

Megatron’s patience was officially wearing thin. “Tell them to get on with it,” he said to Flatline.

“Proceed with the merge,” Flatline said into the comm.

Tailgate let out a shaky ex-vent. “Guess this is it.” 

Cyclonus sat down, crossing his legs, and opened his arms in invitation. Tailgate hesitated for only a moment before stepping into the embrace. Thankfully, Cyclonus didn’t delay any longer. He opened his torso plating to reveal his spark, and Tailgate followed suit.

The surveillance cameras were overcome with static for a nanoklik after the merge was initiated, but the picture quickly stabilized. The point of contact was impossible to miss: light and charge dancing between the two frames. 

Megatron’s cheeks warmed at the sounds the minibot was making. If anything, he’d expected the process to be painful. But Tailgate’s helpless moans made it evident that it was anything but. Cyclonus, in contrast, was completely silent, despite the utter rapture written on his face.

“Cut off the feed,” Megatron snapped. He saw no reason to keep monitoring them.

He told himself that it had nothing to do with the uncomfortable squirming in the pit of his fuel tank.

* * *

“The merge was a success,” Flatline confirmed, once Cyclonus had been escorted back to the laboratory. Cyclonus' gaze lingered on Tailgate throughout, soft and full of longing, as though the other occupants of the room weren’t there. Including the two Combaticons standing on either side of Tailgate.

Tailgate was similarly transfixed.

“Aww — isn’t that romantic,” mocked Vortex, though his tone carried an edge that belied the levity of his words. “Just look at those googoo-optics.” 

“Silence,” Megatron ordered him. He wasn’t prone to sentimentality, but the first step in the renewal of their species was very clearly not the appropriate time for gloating. Even Brawl appeared to have picked up on the gravity of the occasion.

“They will have to repeat the process once every three solar cycles for about a deca-cycle,” said Flatline. “We should wait to see the outcome of continued merges before going ahead with any others.” He straightened. “You can close your spark chamber.”

Cyclonus did so, pushing himself to his feet and approaching Tailgate and the Combaticons. "Wrists," said Brawl. Once again, Cyclonus obeyed, patiently allowing Brawl to fasten the cuffs. 

In what was perhaps a delayed reaction to Vortex's earlier taunting, Cyclonus' attention was finally diverted from Tailgate. To Vortex, he said, “You’ve never been in love."

Vortex crossed his arms over his torso. “And what’s it matter to you?”

"It doesn't," said Cyclonus. "Just know that a warrior can only reach his true potential when he loves another with his whole spark.” As if to punctuate the point, he leaned down to kiss Tailgate on the top of the head, heedless of his bound hands.

Vortex’ visor dimmed, and he turned his gaze away from them.

“I wish I could hug you right now,” said Tailgate, huffily, as Cyclonus straightened. “I don’t know why they’re even bothering to keep _me _in cuffs.” 

“They know better than to underestimate you,” said Cyclonus.

Megatron reset his vocalizer. “Take them to their cells,” he commanded. 

“Wait — you mean we’re not going to be in the same cell?” asked Tailgate, outraged.

“Your merges must continue under controlled conditions for the results to be reliable,” said Flatline.

The minibot shot a glare at Megatron. “You know, after I first learned about the war, I almost became a Decepticon. I thought you guys had the right idea about how much the old social order sucked. Rewind showed me some of the horrible things you did during the war, but Cyclonus is always saying that the Autobots probably did horrible things too. That they just won't show me because they're ashamed.” His visor flashed. “The war is over, though, and you’re still being sadistic jerks! You’re just as awful as everybody always said!”

Megatron’s managed, with some effort, to resist the urge to throttle the little mech. “I am being _merciful_,” he said. “During the war, you would’ve already been _smelted_. And that can still be arranged.”

Tailgate didn’t respond, his visor sparking. He turned to Cyclonus and curled into him as best he could. “I don’t want to be alone again,” he said softly, clearly intending the words only for Cyclonus.

“Our sparks will be together,” soothed Cyclonus. “Can’t you already feel it?”

Tailgate gave a jerky nod.

“Enough,” Megatron spat. “Get them out of my sight.”

* * *

Later, alone in his quarters, Megatron conceded that he shouldn’t have allowed Tailgate to rattle him.

Except, if he was being honest, it wasn’t really _Tailgate _that had left him feeling off-kilter. It was the implications of what he’d seen. Of what spark merging really entailed.

Scorponok had mentioned a ‘psychic bond’, and Megatron hadn’t really believed him. It was clear now, however, that Scorponok had been _downplaying _the psychological effects. That they eclipsed even those of repeated interfacing.

If Megatron wanted to lead Cybertron to the glorious future it deserved, then he would have to produce newsparks of his own. But to allow himself to be so tangled up in another person — to allow them access to his _mind _— was a steep price to pay.

And yet, he couldn’t demand this sacrifice of his Decepticons without committing to it as well.

There was no alternative.

* * *

A deca-cycle later, Flatline confirmed that the photonic crystal within Cyclonus had entered its incubation phase, requiring no more spark merges. Cyclonus and Tailgate were relocated to an apartment in Iacon. They would be allowed provisional freedom so long as they continued to cooperate.

The compatibility tests began in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the beginning and I know the end, but what comes between is much more malleable. The relationships and characters tags are far from comprehensive, and will be updated as they develop. I haven't forgotten about the characters from the Colonies, for example, or the ones who are currently stranded on Earth. 
> 
> Minor characters will not be tagged.


	2. Leading By Example (Megatron/Rodimus)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings for this chapter: Depression, self-loathing, and Megatron being an enormous asshole.

Rodimus wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he was removed from his cell by Brawl. An interrogation, maybe. An execution. But it became increasingly clear, as he was escorted out of the prison and into the outskirts of Iacon, that this was probably not going to end in violence. That probably explained why Brawl was in such a rotten mood. Lots of unnecessary shoving.

Rodimus was loaded into a transport. A necessity, since the I/D chip meant he couldn't transform. No cuffs, at least, since there’d be no point. Brawl had integrated weapons and an alt-mode. Rodimus wouldn’t get far if he tried to run away.

He got dropped off at the palace in the center of the city, where he was led through a side entrance, down a dark hallway, and shoved one final time into a smallish, unassuming habsuite. Probably intended for use by servants.

Megatron was waiting for him, leaning against the wall furthest from the recharge slab. 

“Okay,” said Rodimus. “What the frag is going on here?”

There was a long, awkward pause, before Megatron finally said, “We are...compatible.” 

Rodimus stared at him. “Are you _hitting_ on me? ‘Cause I thought Decepticons had laws against that kind of thing.” Not that every Decepticon followed them, of course. But Megatron was the one who’d _made_ the laws.

Megatron pinched the bridge of his nose. “I mean it _literally_, you fool. Our _sparks_ are compatible for the purposes of producing a newspark.”

Oh right. The tests. Flatline had explained something about newsparks, but Rodimus hadn’t really paid attention. Too busy thinking about how much he’d fragged everything up. 

“The laws have been provisionally repealed, in any case. The process requires a spark merge, which certainly qualifies as fraternization.”

He vaguely recalled Flatline saying something about that, too. “That sounds painful. And possibly fatal.”

“It’s neither, provided that the sparks are compatible.” Megatron shifted his weight ever-so-slightly. Like he was _nervous_. “And, as I’ve already said _twice_: ours are compatible.”

Rodimus guessed that he could accept that explanation, after all the other crazy slag he’d seen. He'd also learned that crazy slag usually went several layers deep. “Why do I get the feeling like there’s more to it than just that?”

He must’ve hit the nail on the head, because Megatron frowned. “It requires repeated mergings, followed by an incubation period. And...” Of course there was an ‘and’. “It will result in a permanent psychic bond.”

Rodimus wasn’t even sure what a ‘psychic bond’ meant. Was it like with branched sparks? Topspin and Twin Twist used to say that could feel each other’s pain, sometimes. If that was what Rodimus would be in for, it definitely wasn’t something that he wanted with _anyone_, let alone _Megatron_. 

“There’s no way in hell that you want any kind of bond with _me_,” said Rodimus.

“Irrelevant,” Megatron said. “It’s a necessary sacrifice, if we’re to do our part in restoring Cybertron.”

For a nanoklik, Rodimus was tempted to tell Megatron about the spark field they’d found on Luna 1. If Megatron had access to it, it would probably mean that they wouldn’t need to go through this whole ‘spark merging’ song and dance.

Of course, Rodimus hadn’t actually been able to reignite any of the sparks when he’d gone back after defeating Tyrest, since his part of the Matrix had been destroyed. The other half had been with Bumblebee, which meant that either Megatron had it now, or it was missing. In the former case, Megatron would probably kill the Autobots, because they weren’t needed anymore. And in the latter? Rodimus could just picture it now: Megatron scouring the galaxy for the other half of the Matrix, abandoning all efforts to rebuild on Cybertron. But not before still killing all the Autobots so that they couldn’t step in to fill the void while he was gone. 

“There’s no way to get out of this, huh?” said Rodimus, an all-too-familiar despair settling over him. 

“Real leadership means setting an _example_,” said Megatron. “But of course, your command of the Lost Light resulted in nothing but a series of disasters, each more ridiculous than the last. What would _you_ know of leadership?”

The words hit like meteor strike, right in Rodimus’ spark. Because Megatron was right. Rodimus could tell himself that he’d stopped Tyrest — that he’d helped to save the universe. But all of that had mostly come down to luck, or the spontaneous courage and resourcefulness of the Lost Light crew. It hadn’t been because Rodimus was a good leader. If he'd been a good leader, then Rewind and Pipes wouldn't be dead.

“Yeah, well — it must really bother you that you’re stuck with me instead of Optimus,” said Rodimus, remembering the conversation he’d overheard between the two leaders on Earth. It had been downright _cozy_. 

That earned him a scowl. A hollow victory. “Enough,” Megatron snapped. “Let’s get this over with.” He opened his subspace hatch and took out what looked to be some kind of crystal. “Open your spark chamber and come here.”

Rodimus hesitated, nausea churning in his fuel tank. 

“You can either open it willingly and come here, or I can strap you down and have Flatline open in for you. The former will be far more pleasant for both of us.”

There was a part of Rodimus that was tempted to tell Megatron to go right ahead. Hell, it wouldn’t have even been a question a few deca-cycles ago. But now it just seemed so _pointless_. 

A lot of things seemed pointless, these days.

Rodimus trudged over to where Megatron was leaning against the wall. “So...how do we even do this?”

Megatron straightened, then lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the floor. Steeling himself, Rodimus sank to his knees, opened his spark chamber, and crawled into Megatron’s lap.

Primus, Megatron was huge. Nothing like being in a bot’s lap to bring that kind of thing into focus.

“There should be an...apparatus, in your chamber,” Megatron said. “For the crystal, that is. Flatline confirmed it during the tests.”

“I got re-formatted by the Matrix,” said Rodimus. Not that he’d made a habit of poking around his own chest cavity _before _the Matrix. “So your guess is as good as mine.”

There was some small consolation in watching how uncomfortable Megatron looked as he reached into Rodimus’ chest cavity. Small, and temporary. Having a genocidal warlord stick his energon-and-blood-stained hand inside your delicate bits was even less pleasant than having a medic do it. 

After a couple of kliks of Megatron exploring Rodimus’ internals, he announced, “Ah. There it is.” He then reached in with his other hand to slot the crystal into place.

Rodimus felt it. It had a _presence _that was difficult to describe, but impossible to ignore.

Megatron removed his hands from Rodimus’ chamber, and then his own chest plates were splitting apart. The spark they revealed was startingly bright.

Rodimus was suddenly very aware of how vulnerable Megatron was, with his spark exposed. If Rodimus was fast enough, he could probably reach in and— 

And—

“If you tried it, I wouldn’t kill you,” said Megatron. “I wouldn’t even hurt you. But I would be compelled to make an example out of a more _expendable _Autobot. I’m sure there are many candidates among the former Lost Light crew.” Rodimus looked up at Megatron’s face, finding only cold determination there. “The one who’s been impersonating Ultra Magnus, perhaps.”

Rodimus didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing. “How’d you know?” 

Megatron smirked in a way that seemed entirely humorless. “I worked with Starscream for millions of years.”

Oh yeah. That whole bizarre relationship. Was Starscream even still alive? Rodimus had no idea what had happened to him after Megatron’s coup. 

“There’s no use in delaying any longer,” Megatron said. Megatron’s spark seemed to be pulsing more quickly. Rodimus thought his own spark might be, too. Like they were calling to each other. And when Megatron wrapped his arms around Rodimus to draw their sparks together, Rodimus didn’t fight it.

There was a surge of charge as their sparks touched, and it was the opposite of painful. Rodimus let out a moan at the tingling euphoria that swept through his frame. 

Then came a wave of _emotions_ that weren’t his own. Pride. Determination. Rage. Hatred. Envy. 

But there was more, as well. So much more than Rodimus would’ve ever expected from Megatron. Sadness. Regret. A pervasive, roiling fear. And loneliness: so deep and intense that it made Rodimus want to weep. To pull away from the merge. But Megatron was holding him in place, impossibly strong. 

All the while, charge was pulsing outward from the point of contact, bringing with it waves of pleasure that grew in strength with every passing moment. Rodimus tried to focus on that instead of the emotions that were at once wholly alien and achingly familiar. It didn’t work; the totality that was _Megatron_ was impossible to escape. Rodimus sank ever deeper into _other_, until the distinction between _other _and _self _became meaningless. 

He heard a noise — something between a moan and a sob — but couldn’t figure out who was making it, before the charge finally crested into overload. Total, all-encompassing bliss. A perfect, transcendent kind of joy, where even the concept of _self _and _other _fell away. 

And then, very suddenly, it was over.

Megatron broke off the merge by closing his spark chamber, and Rodimus followed suit, slumping against Megatron with a clang. He felt hollowed-out: a strut-deep exhaustion which left no room for anything else. 

They sat there in silence for several kliks. It was strange, to be so aware of himself again. And he was oddly...bereft. Kind of like he felt after interfacing, but worse, and without any of the impulse to seek out more physical contact. He was only leaning against Megatron because he didn’t have the energy to move. 

It reminded him of the loneliness that he’d felt through the merge, and he was briefly amazed that he even _needed _to be reminded. In the moment, it had been so utterly overwhelming. Maybe it was because, by the end, the very idea that something like loneliness could exist had seemed so absurd. 

Drift had talked about ‘communion’, sometimes. This had probably been close to what he’d meant. 

“You won,” Rodimus murmured. “So why the hell are you so miserable?”

Megatron didn’t answer. Rodimus hadn’t really expected him to.

He got the impression that Megatron didn’t actually know the reason himself.


	3. Interlude: Flatline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional warnings for this chapter. Just a (former-ish) Decepticon with a crush.

Flatline was a very accomplished doctor, but even he couldn’t hope to keep up with all the demands being placed on him by Megatron. 

He’d debated whether or not to go to the resurgent Decepticon leader to discuss these limitations, since he knew he’d only been excused his stint of neutrality due to his utility. Admitting that he was struggling could undermine that utility. But he also knew that Megatron would eventually notice if he fell behind in his duties. A conversation on the matter would therefore be inevitable either way. Better, Flatline reasoned, to have that conversation on his own terms. 

Megatron had been...gracious, all things considered. 

Flatline hadn’t actually suggested that they make use of the Autobots; his pardon was far too conditional to allow for such latitude. Thankfully, Megatron had come to that conclusion on his own. He always had been pragmatic.

Not as pragmatic as Starscream, though, and Flatline found himself missing the level of candor that he’d enjoyed as Starscream’s physician. Flatline would not have hesitated to tell Starscream that training some of the NAILs might be necessary, for example. Quickmix would be more than equal to the task. But Flatline dared not express such sentiments to Megatron. Megatron was clearly more suspicious of NAILs than he was of Autobots. The Autobots were at least a known quantity.

Neither of the Autobots were happy about their new assignment. First Aid explained that he didn’t object to the process in principle, but that he couldn’t condone the way it was being imposed upon unwilling participants. Flatline supposed he could sympathize with that position, though he personally agreed with the necessity of repopulating Cybertron at any cost. They’d lost even more mechs on account of the ‘death wave’ emitted by the Necrotitan, and Flatline was saddened every time he thought of it. So many needless deaths.

He didn’t know Ratchet’s opinion of the matter, as Ratchet refused to speak to him outside of a professional setting. Not much of a loss, since the old mech was perpetually curt and dour. 

But First Aid was a rare combination of both competence and personability. 

Oh, First Aid certainly had his quirks. An unfortunate fixation on the brutish Autobot team the ‘Wreckers’, for example, whom he would chatter away about at length and without prompting during breaks. He perhaps even had a propensity for obsessiveness in general. But he was still tolerable, and had actual expertise regarding sparks. Flatline’s specialty had always been frame repairs and augmentation, so First Aid’s input really was invaluable.

Indeed, there were times when First Aid was _more_ than merely tolerable. Even the chattering was endearing, in its own way. After all: when First Aid was engrossed in elucidating the details of one of the Wreckers’ grandiose adventures, he was briefly distracted from his mourning.

It wasn’t as though First Aid was obnoxious about it, the way some bots were. He didn’t mope. He never allowed it to interfere with his work. But there was a kind of quiet sadness about him, noticeable only when one saw its influence wane.

Both First Aid and Ratchet had already been subjected to the spark screenings, of course. And First Aid had administered the test to Flatline shortly after learning the procedure. Flatline felt an undeniable anticipation as he checked whether he and First Aid were a match. Fraternization was now permissible, but only in the event of spark compatibility. 

His spark sank when he saw the results.


	4. Interlude: Vortex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings for this chapter: Casual references to sexual assault, torture, and murder. And Vortex just being a sociopath in general.

Vortex and Brawl had the apartment to themselves, and were drinking together. Well, it was mostly Brawl drinking. Vortex liked engex as much as the next mech, but not as much as Brawl. 

One of the perks of being on the ‘winning side’ was not having to pay rent anymore. Pretty much the only perk, really. They weren’t even allowed to rough up Autobots or NAILs unless they were causing trouble. Like, for real. There were Decepticons back in prison because they hadn’t taken the rule seriously. It was probably only a temporary thing, until the Decepticons could get their numbers up again. But it was still pretty annoying.

So yeah. Brawl was pouring all the extra savings from rent into buying engex. Mostly from Swindle, who was doing a booming business under Megatron’s half-sparked attempts to regulate engex distribution. Megatron had always been big on that ‘abstinence’ slag, but he’d never actually tried to enforce it during the war. Vortex figured that the only reason he was trying to enforce it now was because he was bored. Seemed like peacetime had that effect on everyone.

Anyway. Brawl was bitching like he always did when he got really overcharged but didn’t have anyone to beat on.

“It’s just — we won, right? So why’s everything the same? I liked it better when we were workin’ for humans. And humans are the _worst_.” 

“Guess the war being over is the real problem,” said Vortex, because Brawl was actually right for once. Onslaught was just as restless as before, coming up with some kinda scheme at any given moment. Blast Off was still being a killjoy. Brawl was still drinking himself stupid at every available opportunity. And Vortex still felt an itch under his plating that he just couldn’t seem to scratch. 

The only Combaticon who was doing well under the new regime was Swindle, and that was ‘cause he always made money when other bots were miserable.

It wasn’t just the peace, though, if Vortex was being honest. Not for him. He’d had this itch for a real long time. The war had definitely provided lots of entertainment. Finding creative new ways to get mechs to spill their internals was always a good time. And, of course, the old classic of watching them scream as they fell to their doom usually got his energon pumping.

But the thrill of it never lasted. And when he’d laid down to recharge, he’d always felt like something was missing. Like — like he shouldn’t have been lying there alone.

That was probably why he’d been so jealous of Cyclonus and Tailgate, and why Cyclonus’ words had hit him so hard. Vortex could own up to that much, even if it was only to himself.

Because, during the war, Vortex had often wondered what would happen if he _kept_ one of the bots he interrogated instead of slagging ‘em afterward. 

Problem was that ‘fraternization’ had been banned — still was, unless you got a special exemption — and even Vortex hadn’t wanted to torque off the DJD. Sure, he could’ve maybe gone for another Decepticon, but the higher-ups didn’t give a slag about stuff like mechs in relationships. That was the whole appeal of an Autobot, at least in theory: once you had ‘em, they were _yours_. No going off to be stationed somewhere else. No getting killed in a battle, since they were a prisoner. Too bad Megatron thought everybody who fragged an Autobot was bound to defect. 

Vortex wouldn’t’ve defected. He didn’t need any dumb Autobot rules about ‘sentient rights’ or ‘ethical warfare’. It just would’ve been nice to have someone of his own.

He had actually slipped up, once. With Kickstart, this adorable Autobot with a hovercar alt. They’d met a few times over the course of the war, and he’d looked so cute when he was scared that Vortex had forgotten all about the DJD for a while. The last time they met on the field, Vortex had chased Kickstart away from the action. Convinced the Autobot to suck his spike. It had taken a blaster to Kickstart’s head, but Vortex had made it up to him later by fingering his valve until he overloaded. Kickstart had made the prettiest noises when Vortex had done that.

And yeah, his own overload had been nice, but the best part was probably after, when they’d just..._held_ each other. Vortex had felt that _itch _go away, if only for a little while. But then he’d come to his senses. Remembered what would happen if he got caught. So he’d waited until Kickstart had fallen into recharge before shooting him through the brain module. Nice and quick. No pain.

Cyclonus had been right; Vortex had never been in love. But he knew he _could’ve _fallen in love with Kickstart. And Vortex had never been sadder than in that moment. It’d put him a rut for centuries, and he still got bummed whenever he thought about it.

He’d learned his lesson, though: don’t go getting attached to mechs you couldn’t keep. No matter how cute they looked when they were scared. 

Bots sometimes talked about how dangerous interfacing was; that all it took was doing it a couple of times for both mechs to go nuts for each other. That’s why you were supposed to wait until after you’d already conjunxed. So you’d know you were with each other for the ‘right reasons’. And after what had happened with Kickstart, Vortex could see their point. He didn’t buy that you had to be conjunxes first, but you definitely needed to wait to do it with somebody you could have _forever_. He never wanted to be sad like that again.

That’s why this whole deal with the sparkmates had gotten his hopes up. Only problem was that the chances of actually matching with anyone seemed pretty low. 

Brawl was shaking his shoulder all of a sudden, which snapped Vortex out of his thoughts. “Yo, ‘Tex — are you even listenin’ to me?”

“Nope.”

Brawl slumped back onto the counter. “I was just sayin’ that there’s rumors goin’ around that some ‘Cons joined up with Galvatron instead of coming back here, and they’re makin’ a move on Earth.”

“The Dead Universe guy who was Cyclonus' boss?”

“Yeah. And I’ve been thinkin’ — what’s the point of stayin’ _here_? I’d much rather go squish some stupid humans.” 

Vortex tilted his head to the side, and didn’t make the obvious quip about how Brawl ‘thinking’ didn’t amount to much. “But what if you have a sparkmate?”

Brawl snorted. “Those two Autobots obviously liked each other already. Ain’t nobody who feels that way about me.”

Vortex was pretty sure that Cyclonus wasn’t an Autobot, but whatever. “So?”

“So, I was the one who took Hot Rod to his new habsuite after he and Megatron merged, and he sure as hell didn’t look happy. Not exactly what I picture when I think of sparkmates.” Brawl sat back and took a big gulp of his engex. “I didn’t join the Decepticons so I could have Megatron force some slagger to become my conjunx when we don’t even like each other.” 

“He never said anything about conjunxing,” Vortex pointed out.

“Didn’t need to,” Brawl said. “You can’t tell me that two bots can do that mergin' thing and _not_ become conjunxes.”

Brawl had another great point. This had to be some kind of record. “If you’re worried about not liking each other, then just ‘face a few times first.”

Brawl gave him a funny look. “I really don’t get how your processor works sometimes, ‘Tex.” 

With a shrug, Vortex said, “You planning to leave, then? Megatron won’t like that.” He considered for a nanoklik. “Neither will Onslaught.”

“I dunno,” said Brawl. “Maybe.”

“Well, you’d better decide fast. I heard a rumor, myself — that the DJD are coming.”

There was a pause as Brawl digested this new information. His processor wasn't fast at the best of times, and being overcharged didn't help. 

At last, he said, "Frag."


	5. Surrender (Megatron/Rodimus)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings for this chapter: altered mental states and extremely dubious consent.

It wasn’t unusual for Megatron to watch the surveillance feed from Prime’s cell. Prime had been there for two deca-cycles, since he’d returned from the Dead Universe insisting that his exile as Orion Pax was over — even if it meant execution, or living out the rest of his days as a prisoner. Megatron had opted for the latter, citing Prime’s role in saving the universe as the reason for his clemency. In truth, Megatron never intended for an execution. He needed Prime alive to serve as a reminder of all that he stood against.

And so he would turn on the feed whenever he felt the familiar compulsion to go speak to his subdued arch-enemy, knowing that there were eyes on him constantly. Visiting Prime too often would result in speculation that was best avoided. Instead, he would sit in his office and watch where Prime was suspended in a variable voltage harness, running through the conversation in his mind. He knew Prime so well that intuiting his responses wasn’t difficult. 

He could see it all very clearly indeed: the appeals, the platitudes. So very trite and predictable. The flash of hurt and anger in Prime's optics when Megatron needled him just so. The disappointment. 

It really was astounding that Prime could still be _disappointed _after all these centuries.

The harness was a matter of quid pro quo. It would be removed in time. But for now, Megatron would enjoy the scenarios it allowed him to conjure. Something that would finally break the tiresome repetition of it all. How would Prime react, if Megatron touched him _gently_? The harness would make it impossible to resist. 

Megatron was caught off-guard by the intensity of the desire that pulsed through his frame, settling with a heavy heat in his array. Playing through such scenarios in his mind was nothing new. Prime, defeated and — well, not _quite _helpless. Prime was never _that_. But subjugated. Vulnerable. Megatron making Prime’s frame sing with charge until he opened his array and _begged _to be taken. Succumbing to pleasure would be a far greater humiliation to Prime than succumbing to pain. What a novelty, to silence Prime’s self-righteousness with ecstasy. 

Megatron had brought himself to overload many times by imagining such things, but it usually took more than just _imagining_ to get him _this _charged up.

He turned off the feed and took in a deep invent, willing himself to calm down. He could feel his resolve wavering. Going to Prime now would constitute an unacceptable loss of control. 

His attraction to Prime had never been something he’d bothered to deceive himself about. The eroticism of a fraught rivalry was something long acknowledged in Cybertronian culture. The ancient Classics, passed down from before the Golden Age, were riddled with tales of fierce enemies being pitted against a common foe, and consummating the alliance with interface. Strength drawn to strength.

But Megatron could never actually _act_ on these impulses. After all, interface was ultimately about _mutual _surrender. To initiate interface, even from a position of apparent strength, was still an admission that one had been mastered by one’s desire. And there was no way for either party to come out of the experience unchanged.

The romances depicted in the Classics had also never been between opponents of an ideological nature. If Megatron’s quarrel with Optimus had been over something as paltry as status or territory, resolving it thus would be logical enough. But he and Prime differed on issues as foundational as the fate of the entire Cybertronian race. If Megatron truly believed that his path was the correct one, compromising it would be a betrayal of four million years of spilled energon.

And interface was fundamentally an act of compromise. 

In light of that, it was probably fortunate that Megatron and Prime had not turned out to be compatible. Rodimus was technically a Prime, but was in practice just another cog in _Optimus’_ vision. Through the merges, Megatron had seen a mass of guilt and insecurity barely held together by a thin veneer of bluster. Similar to Starscream, in that way, but without the viciousness or cold ambition. Megatron had successfully managed Starscream for eons; managing Rodimus would be an even simpler matter, ‘psychic bond’ or no. Prime would’ve doubtlessly proven to be far more tenacious in resisting Megatron’s will. 

So long as Megatron’s offspring contained Megatron’s essence, they were sure to be formidable. Regardless of any other factors.

Having successfully distracted himself from thoughts of Prime, his lust should’ve cooled into something more manageable. But Megatron found that it was only intensifying further. Scowling in suspicion, he closed his optics and tried to focus on the sensation. After a few nanokliks of deep concentration, he determined that it was emanating from the ‘bond’. From _Rodimus_. Its appearance now was likely coincidental.

He recalled something that Flatline had mentioned in his reports: Cyclonus and Tailgate had apparently interfaced in the conventional sense as often as they’d been allowed. Megatron had skimmed over the rest of that section, since it seemed obvious to him that they were acting on an existing attraction. The newly-conjunxed were notorious for such behavior, and the intimate lives of other mechs were of no interest to him whatsoever.

But perhaps his dismissal had been overly hasty.

He had become somewhat accustomed to the low-level malaise seeping through the bond. Subtle enough to be mistaken for his own, after the first merge; decidedly more pronounced and alien after the second. Like an itch at the back of his processor. But this level of emotional bleed-through was unprecedented, as was its physical effects. It was impossible to ignore.

Megatron pushed up from his chair, and grimaced at the sensation of pooled lubricant shifting behind his panel. His valve cover must have slid aside unconsciously, allowing the unctuous liquid to escape.

It seemed that a premature visit to Rodimus was unavoidable.

* * *

Rodimus was still a prisoner, for all that he’d been moved to more comfortable quarters in the palace — complete with an ensuite washrack, oil bath, and energon dispenser — and his habsuite could only be opened from the outside with a security code. The setup had already been in place when Starscream had taken up residence here, according to Rattrap. The slimy little Autobot was hardly trustworthy, but he had no reason to lie about such a petty detail. Considering that this place had once been the official residence of the Primes, Megatron found the implications amusing.

He keyed in the code, and the door slid aside to grant him access. It then closed shortly after Megatron entered, locking automatically. 

Rodimus lay in the center of the suite’s enormous two-mech recharge slab, knees bent and legs spread wide, one hand wrapped around a pressurized spike while the other worked furiously over his node. Charge was visibly crackling through his frame.

Megatron had never seen such a lewd display in his entire life, and it made his fuel tank clench in embarrassment even as his array gave a throb of sympathetic arousal. Megatron’s own self-service was always a modest, perfunctory affair. Indeed, Rodimus’ frivolous self-indulgence shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

Rodimus must’ve finally noticed Megatron’s presence, because he let out a yell, closing his legs to hide his exposed valve and hiding his spike with his hands. The embarrassment became mirrored from his end of the bond.

“The frag’s your problem?” he demanded. “Is ‘comming ahead too much to ask of the _mighty Megatron_?”

“You wouldn’t have answered,” Megatron said. “Too caught up in your little...display.”

“It only became a _display _because you barged in on me!” Rodimus shouted, then shuddered, his legs clenching together. Megatron felt an answering surge of charge in his own frame. 

“This must be another side effect,” Megatron said. And it was clearly hitting Rodimus far more powerfully than him. 

“No slag,” Rodimus said through gritted teeth. “And I can get back to taking care of it once you _get the hell out_.”

Megatron approached the recharge slab and sat down on the edge. “That’s not what you really want.” Rodimus actually _whimpered, _his spike twitching beneath his hands. Megatron was sure that, if he had to capacity to depressurized it, he already would have. With a sigh, Megatron said, “If we’re both experiencing the same thing, it stands to reason that it plays some role in the process.”

“You say that like I’m supposed to give a slag about the ‘process’,” Rodimus snarled.

“Your feelings on the matter are of no consequence,” Megatron said. He placed a hand on Rodimus’ leg, charge arcing between his splayed fingers. “Neither are mine. I don’t think either of us can stand this indefinitely, and I suspect it won’t pass on its own.”

Rodimus closed his optics and took in a long, deep invent. Megatron could feel their mutual embarrassment starting to be overwhelmed by their mutual lust. It wasn’t an unpleasant development, and that was how Megatron knew it was truly dangerous.

“Frag it,” Rodimus said, moving his legs apart at last. He was leaking lubricant onto the recharge slab, his node pulsing with charge. “I need your spike. Do you think it’ll fit?”

“I can adjust it,” Megatron said, climbing fully onto the slab. He hesitated for a nanoklik before taking the plunge and transforming his panel away. The accumulated lubricant splattered onto the metal beneath him, the sound unmistakable. Rodimus opened his optics and raised his head to look.

“Wow,” he said. “I guess it’s really getting to you, too.”

“Obviously,” Megatron growled. “I can assure you that I wouldn’t capitulate to this under any other circumstances.” 

There was a surge of _hurt_ through the bond. “This was all _your_ idea. I should be looking for the Knights of Cybertron right now — not ‘facing a genocidal maniac.”

“We both know you wouldn’t be doing anything of the kind,” Megatron said. “Whether here or on the Lost Light, you’d be spending your time _moping_.”

Rodimus’ mouth twisted downward, and he turned over, getting shakily on his hands and knees. Like this, his valve was even more exposed. Without prompting, Megatron’s spike pressurized with a hiss. “Just frag me and get it over with.” 

Megatron could not allow such disrespect to stand. With a snarl, he reached out and grabbed Rodimus by his hips, flipping him back onto his back. “I won’t let you _hide_.” He pinned Rodimus’ arms above his head, looming over him with calculated menace. “Whatever circumstances brought us to this point, you’re _mine_ now.” 

A fresh wave of lust came across the bond. “You’re so _big,_” Rodimus exvented, the words coming out staticky. “I bet it can fit just fine as it is.”

Megatron huffed out a sigh, all the anger leaving him at once. Rodimus was clearly too far gone to remain upset, or even be properly intimidated. Maybe it really was best to just get this over with. “Don’t be absurd. It wouldn’t even make it past the rim.” He depressurized the outermost layer of his spike; the size was now far more suited to Rodimus’ frame, though it would still be a tight fit. Something Rodimus would apparently enjoy immensely.

Rodimus spread his legs apart wider, bucking his hips up. Megatron grunted when their spikes brushed against each other. “You say I’m yours?” Rodimus asked. “Then prove it.”

It was such a transparent attempt at provocation that Megatron almost snorted, but he couldn’t deny the arousal it stirred within him. Still, he held back. It had been over four million years since he’d last interfaced. Since even before Terminus had imparted the wisdom that a true leader couldn’t afford sentimental attachments.

Megatron recognized the absurdity in hesitating now; the spark merges had been more intimate than interfacing could ever hope to be. But they had also not changed his feelings towards Rodimus in any significant way. The affection displayed by Cyclonus and Tailgate after their first merge had likely been a function of existing feelings being shared through the connection, rather than the connection creating them out of whole cloth. By contrast, if you threw two strangers together and forced them to interface, they would inevitably come to care for each other in some capacity. 

Rodimus was right about one thing, at least — this had been Megatron’s choice from the start. And the purpose was not pleasure for its own sake. This was all about ensuring that the faint glow housed within Rodimus’ frame continued to grow into a vibrant spark.

Megatron’s isolation had been a necessary sacrifice for the Cause. Now, ending it would be another.

“Megatron,” Rodimus whined. “What’re you _waiting _for?”

Megatron finally aligned his spike with Rodimus’ valve and pushed inside, earning him a grateful moan. It took a great deal of restraint not to moan himself. Rodimus’ valve was exquisitely hot and slick around him, and the transfer of charge through the connection was an immediate wash of euphoria. 

It was clear that Rodimus was right on the edge of overload. His engine gave a desperate rev with every thrust of Megatron’s hips, arms straining against Megatron’s hold. Megatron’s pleasure built more gradually, his optics roving hungrily over Rodimus’ frame. He’d never allowed himself to acknowledge it before, but Rodimus really was beautiful. He always had been, even before the reformat; the additional bulk had simply leant his frame a subtle strength on top of its speedster elegance.

Megatron released Rodimus' arms, using one hand to hold up his frame while the other was free to explore the plating that was suddenly so inviting. Rodimus wrapped one of his now-released hands around his own spike, and the resulting surge of charge made Megatron groan. He drove into Rodimus with slow but powerful thrusts, his hand trailing up Rodimus’ frame, charge licking against it at every point of contact. Up Rodimus’ chest, over his Autobrand, the delicate cables of his neck, until finally reaching his lips.

Megatron’s thrusts stuttered briefly as he was overwhelmed by the desire to lean forward and seize those lips in a kiss. But he held himself back. Rodimus made a low, needy sound. His optics — open, but unfocused — sharpened into greater awareness, and he deliberately held Megatron’s gaze as he snaked his tongue out to lave at Megatron’s fingers. 

Megatron shuddered, pushing his fingers into Rodimus’ mouth. He then gave one last thrust before overloading with a shout that was half surprise. Rodimus moaned obscenely around Megatron’s fingers as the charge overtook him as well. 

Interface overloads always lasted an absurdly long time; Megatron had to fight not to collapse on top of Rodimus once his spike had finally depressurized. He rolled onto his back instead, thankful for the size of the recharge slab. His frame was still thrumming with aftershocks.

It couldn’t quite distract from the oncoming melancholy, however. The aftermath of interfacing tended to be accompanied by extremes of emotion — how positive or negative depending upon one’s general psychological state prior to initiating the act. The bond between him and Rodimus was only making it more fraught than it might have otherwise been. 

And, sure enough, when Megatron turned his head to look at Rodimus, the Autobot was crying — blue sparks leaking from his optics. Rodimus noticed Megatron watching him, and curled onto his side. “Don’t _look_,” he said. 

Through the bond, Megatron could feel that the ache from Rodimus’ end was a much longing as sadness. He missed somebody terribly. And the jealousy that stirred in Megatron’s spark at the realization was as involuntary as it was irrational. Megatron had told Rodimus that he wouldn’t permit Rodimus to hide, and yet here Rodimus was — hiding. It would only be appropriate to reach over and force Rodimus to look at him. To remind him of who, precisely, was in control.

Except that Rodimus would no doubt see through the rationalization. Could probably already feel the jealousy across the bond. He would see that, far from exerting control, Megatron was giving in to weakness.

So Megatron just lay there instead, stewing in his impotence, until exhaustion finally overcame him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it may be a question some readers have, on account of fandom convention: in this fanon universe, transfluid is a modified form of energon and is therefore metabolically 'costly'. As such, it's only released during interface by the penetrating partner. So Rodimus didn't make a mess on himself. :)


	6. Interlude: Starscream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This fic is not dead, and neither is Starscream!
> 
> Additional warnings for this chapter: psychological torture, starvation, and Starscream being an abuse survivor — with all that entails.

He didn’t know where they were keeping him. All he knew was that it was damp, and dark, and he was always alone.

Well, except for his hallucination. Because he was apparently losing his mind.

“For the last time, Starscream — I’m not an hallucination!”

“Exactly the sort of thing an hallucination would say,” muttered Starscream, curling more tightly in on himself.

“Alright, fine. If I’m really just a product of your mind, then how do I know that Flatline is coming?”

Flatline _wasn’t _coming. Megatron wouldn’t let anybody come to visit him, and certainly not a mech that Starscream actually kind of _liked_. This whole setup was to show Starscream what happened when he got what he wanted: defeat, pain, humiliation. Megatron hadn’t even had the decency to kill Starscream outright.

The door to the cell creaked open.

“Starscream…” said a voice that sounded suspiciously similar to Flatline’s.

“Go away,” said Starscream. “You’re not real.”

Footsteps coming towards him. That was new. The fake Bumblebee didn’t make any sound when he moved. He just sort of...floated.

A big hand, touching his wings. Starscream shivered. 

“Can you stand?” 

Starscream was so horribly undercharged that he wasn’t actually certain of the answer. The awful, gnawing hunger was an ever-present reminder of the last time that Megatron had returned from the brink of death to ruin everything. Only then, Starscream had deserved it. Both he and Megatron had known that he deserved it.

But this time, Starscream had been doing a _good job_. This time, Starscream’s only crime was not being Megatron. 

It was that thought which compelled him to come out of his protective ball and struggle woozily to his feet. Flatline helped to keep him from toppling right back down to the grimy floor.

Fake Bumblebee had been _right_. Huh.

“Maybe I’m not actually going insane,” he said aloud. 

Flatline had taken some medical-grade energon out of his subspace. He held it out, but didn’t insult Starscream’s intelligence by telling him to drink. As if Starscream would turn down fuel when he was so agonizingly hungry.

The sudden rush of rich energon through his lines was a relief so intense that it bordered on euphoria. It took all of Starscream’s willpower not to groan.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Starscream managed, once he was reasonably sure he could maintain his dignity. “Don’t tell me that Megatron is getting _soft_.”

“I’ll explain on the way to the infirmary,” said Flatline. “This cell is...unpleasant.”

Far be it from Starscream to argue. “Lead the way,” he said.


	7. Interlude: Nautica

Cybertron was very strange.

Herself, Windblade, and Chromia had been granted temporary residency. Windblade because of her abilities as a Cityspeaker, with Chromia along as her bodyguard. As for Nautica — she had come here to study the quantum engines on the Lost Light. Provided that she shared any findings with the government of Cybertron.

Nautica had jumped at the chance, driven by an insatiable curiosity. 

At first, she hadn’t been entirely sure what the Decepticons and Autobots had even been fighting about. Preliminary reading made it seem like they’d essentially been after the same objective at the start. But then she’d read _Towards Peace_, and gotten a clearer picture of the shape of things.

It was the first time that she’d thought that it had perhaps been a mistake to come here. It was far from the last.

About half a deca-cycle into her research, she had been given a new, more pressing mission: join a team of Cybertronian scientists in locating the deposits of sentio metallico that were supposedly hidden somewhere within the depths of Cybertron.

Most of her colleagues were Autobots, barring a rotating contingent of Decepticon escorts. Or ‘overseers’, as Jetfire described them. The reason for this Autobot predominance was due to the most accomplished of the Decepticon scientists and researchers being either exiled or recently deceased. The only Decepticon regular with any kind of technical background was Mixmaster — a chemist, as opposed to an engineer or physicist. He was also flighty and distracted most of the time.

Wheeljack explained that it was likely the result of Mixmaster being the subject of Combiner experiments. Nautica shuddered at the thought. She certainly had her issues with Camien society, but Cybertron was truly on another level. 

She was trying not to let it get to her. At least her work was engaging.

And she could always meet up with Chromia and Windblade when things got too overwhelming. At one of the local oil houses, even, because Cybertron had enough energon that they didn’t need to ration it. Officially, engex was regulated in a way that energon was not, but the oil house’s proprietor had apparently worked out an arrangement with someone unscrupulous and resourceful.

“I heard that Megatron’s going to meet with the Mistress of Flame,” Chromia said, idly swirling the last little bit of her engex around in her glass. 

They had to be careful what they said in public. And even in private, over their comms, if the rumors about the Decepticon’s head of intelligence were to be believed. So Nautica responded with a mild: “Hopefully they can come to some mutually beneficial arrangement.”

With the way that Megatron had imprisoned and humiliated the Prime, Nautica knew that desperation was the only reason why the Mistress of Flame would’ve agreed to meet with him. Caminus needed Cybertronian energon too much to allow for religion to get in the way. She only hoped that Megatron’s own desperation made him more reasonable than the fanaticism implied by his thesis in _Towards Peace_.

“And how are things going with Metroplex?” Nautica asked Windblade. Though the fact that her friend was already on her second glass of engex gave her an inkling as to what the answer would be. 

“Somebody’s been siphoning his fuel,” Windblade said, her optics dimming in sadness. “I’ve been trying to get a meeting with Megatron myself, to discuss it with him. But his secretary keeps telling me he’s too busy.”

“Rattrap is such a little glitch,” Chromia groused. “I _told _you that we should’ve gone back to Caminus.” 

What Nautica wanted to say was: Chromia was probably the only one of them who would be _allowed _to leave. What she said instead was, “Our work here is too important.”

Picking up on what was unspoken, Chromia made a face and downed the rest of her drink. 


	8. Longing (Megatron/Rodimus)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I should just add "Megatron being a massive asshole" to the tags.

In hindsight, Rodimus mused, it was probably a good thing that Drift had been exiled from the Lost Light before the slag with Shockwave went down and they all got captured by the ‘Cons. If Drift had still been with them, Megatron would’ve definitely had him executed as a traitor. 

So yeah. It was definitely a good thing. But Rodimus also knew that he was probably just making up excuses for letting Drift take the fall for his own fragups. Optimus sure as hell didn’t let other bots take responsibility for his mistakes. 

That wasn’t even the worst of it, though. Because, if Rodimus was being one hundred percent honest with himself, it had been a relief. Not a big one. Just a teeny, tiny scrap of a relief, not to see the way that Drift looked at Ratchet anymore. 

Rodimus knew exactly what this said about him as a person. Knew this was a big part of why Ultra Magnus would never trust his judgement. But he couldn’t hide from it. Certainly not now, when he had nothing but time, and the only distraction was Megatron’s feelings leaking through the bond.

Well, that, and the carving. And apparently he was going to have to deal with semi-regular attacks of extreme horniness, as well. Which he now knew had a high probability of ending up with him weeping like a pathetic newspark. 

Rodimus hadn’t cried in literal eons — not since after Nyon — and crying in front of Megatron of all bots was next-level humiliating. It should have put him off the whole thing entirely. But the fragged-up truth of it was that he wanted the feeling to come back. To get lost in the mindless wanting. It had been the first time in deca-cycles that he’d been able to _forget_. He couldn’t even get properly overcharged anymore, with the way his _condition _gobbled up all the extra energy.

It had felt so damn good when Megatron had been inside him. Like everything finally made sense. That deliciously thick spike; those intense red optics, focused solely on him. Just the thought of it was enough to get his fans spinning. Rodimus could tell that this was the regular kind of arousal, though, not the desperate, half-mad lust from before.

He didn’t exactly have anything better to do, so he transformed his panel away and lay back on the recharge slab. He teased his node with slow circles of his index finger, thinking of his go-to spank bank material. His first time with Drift: the heady taste of Drift’s lubricant; the way that Drift had tried so hard not to make any noise; the hard-won, helpless little moan he’d made as he overloaded.

Unbidden, Rodimus’ mind supplied him with another scenario: Megatron, with Rodimus’ head between his legs. He’d probably try to be stoic, too. Hell, he’d literally _invented _the Decepticon obsession with projecting an outward facade of strength and control. But Rodimus would make it so damn good that he’d fall to pieces.

Rodimus was caught off-guard by how quickly his charge ramped up at the thought, and his engine revved so loudly that he probably should’ve been embarrassed. But he’d given up on feeling shame when it came to this particular aspect of his current situation. Compared to all the other slag he’d done, overloading to fantasies of going down on Megatron was just window dressing.

And oh, he was getting close already. Thinking of thick, powerful silver thighs, spread wide for him and trembling from pleasure. Getting the Slagmaker’s engine to stutter as he tried to hold back from letting any sounds out of his vocalizer.

That was what did it. Rodimus overloaded with a distorted moan. 

It was over fairly quickly, compared to the way overloads just went on and on during interfacing. But Rodimus also wasn’t crying, so he wasn’t about to complain. Instead, he was left feeling kind of drowsy. And hungry.

He was pretty much always hungry, nowadays.

Reluctantly, he closed his panel and pushed himself off of the recharge slab, trudging over to the energon dispenser. He noted idly that Megatron was annoyed about something, but Rodimus couldn’t bring himself to care. After he’d downed two glasses, he turned to the wall on the far side of the slab. A now-familiar itch sprang to life at the back of his processor, prompting him to approach it. He was rewarded for giving in to the urge with a pleasant kind of numbness. A haze of relaxed concentration. Even Megatron’s presence faded into the background.

He lifted his right index finger, pressed it to the wall, and continued to carve.

* * *

Megatron had transitioned from annoyed to pissed by the time he opened the door to Rodimus’ habsuite, many cycles later. It was jarring enough to finally shake Rodimus out of his reverie. 

Megatron was an observant mech, so he definitely noticed what Rodimus was doing on the wall. But he was apparently too angry to care. He mechhandled Rodimus away from the wall and onto the recharge slab, optics blazing.

“Open your panel,” Megatron growled. And it probably should’ve maybe scared Rodimus a little.

Instead, Rodimus felt his valve start to lubricate. “Bad day?” he asked, smirking.

“Open. Your. Panel.”

Rodimus’ smirk spread into a grin, as he caught on to what had probably gotten under Megatron’s plating. “Aww. Did I get you all hot and bothered, big guy?” He transformed his panel away. “Were you in a _meeting_? Did you fans kick up?” 

He had definitely hit the nail on the head, because Megatron snarled and flipped Rodimus over. So doing it from behind was fine, as long as it was on Megatron’s terms. Rodimus obliged Megatron by getting onto his hands and knees, sliding his valve cover aside. Sure enough, Megatron’s fans were roaring.

“Is this what you wanted?” Megatron rumbled angrily, and Rodimus could feel the head of Megatron’s spike pressing against him.

“I actually got off to the thought of eating you out,” Rodimus said conversationally. “But this works too.”

Rodimus could hear the whine of Megatron’s teeth grinding together as he gripped Rodimus around the waist and drove into him. And Rodimus moaned helplessly in appreciation.

The pace Megatron set was punishing. Brutal. That big, hard spike lighting up every node inside of him until his entire frame was blazing with charge. Even the slight edge of pain only served to elevate the pleasure.

Overload hit them quickly, and Rodimus all but sobbed at how incredible it felt, his valve hungrily drinking down every pulse of Megatron’s transfluid. He let himself get completely lost in the ecstasy of it.

Afterward, Rodimus just flopped down onto his torso, while Megatron slumped onto his back beside him, both of them completely spent. 

He didn’t cry this time. No matter how much he wanted to be held — no matter how much he wished the Drift were here to be the one to do it.

“Who is it that you long for so, hmm?” Megatron asked, and Rodimus could feel the jealousy radiating across the bond. It wasn’t that Megatron actually gave a slag about him, of course. It was just that Megatron had an ego the size of Vector Sigma.

“Could it be...Deadlock?” Megatron mused. “He was your third on the Lost Light, no? And he mentioned befriending you in one of his reports.”

Rodimus’ spark stuttered as his mind struggled to process the implication of those words. “You’re lying,” he said.

“I think we both know that I’m not,” Megatron said. 

It was true that Rodimus couldn’t feel any deception through the bond, but still. It couldn’t be anything but a lie. “But…that makes no fragging sense!” Rodimus turned over onto his side and pushed himself upright to glare at Megatron. A mistake, since now he could _see _Megatron’s smug, insufferable smirk instead of just sensing the emotion behind it. “Kup only let him join us because he saw with his own optics how Drift fought off Decepticons. He joined the fragging _Wreckers_!”

“Deep cover requires sacrifices,” Megatron said. “I thought even Autobots understood that.”

“But why go to all that trouble?” Rodimus demanded. So sure, Drift hadn’t been with them all that long. Barely a fraction of the time he’d been with the Decepticons. But still, he’d poured out energon and oil and treasure for the Autobots. He’d even let Rodimus touch him, for a while.

And the way he’d mourned for Pipes? Rodimus knew for a fact that it hadn’t been an act. Not when Drift had come by Rodimus’ habsuite to curl up against him and bury his face in Rodimus’ shoulder. To murmur sadly about how Pipes had wanted to experience the universe and find love, and now he never would. 

“Deadlock has certain precognitive abilities, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Megatron said. “He informed me that he would have to fake a defection in order to avert some great disaster for all Cybertronians, and ensure a Decepticon victory. He was correct on all counts.” 

“But — he saved Crystal City! I know for sure that he did!” You couldn’t _fake _the way that the Circle of Light had treated him when they’d spoken after the Tyrest disaster. The way they’d greeted Drift like an old friend.

At last, some of Megatron’s insufferable smugness ebbed away. There was a small spark of uncertainty.

Rodimus grinned fiercely, hope flaring to life in his spark. “He didn’t tell you about Crystal City, huh?” And Lockdown hadn’t, either. Maybe that was around the time that the bounty hunter had started working for Tyrest.

Megatron regained his composure with frustrating speed. “Communication was sparse, and limited to only what was relevant to his mission.”

“Or,” Rodimus said, “he decided to _actually _defect, and didn’t want you siccing the DJD on his aft.” In fact, Rodimus was one hundred percent certain that was actually what’d happened. So maybe Drift started out as a double agent, but he must’ve seen for himself how much better it was to be an Autobot. Started to care about some of the Autobots he got to know. Like Rodimus, Pipes, and Ratchet.

Though Drift had probably always cared about Ratchet.

Megatron remained unphased. “I suppose we’ll see, when he returns to Cybertron.”

“He’s coming back?” Rodimus asked, a jolt of dread shooting straight through him. 

“Indeed.” Rodimus tried not to give Megatron the satisfaction of flinching, feeling Megatron’s amusement. “And, if you truly care for Deadlock, then you had best hope that you’re wrong about his allegiances.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired by Cyberverse. :)
> 
> Only, you know. This version of Drift is a complex character.


	9. Reunion (Drift/Ratchet)

It was surreal to see Megatron again. 

There had been stretches during the war when Drift hadn’t seen his leader for thousands of years at a time. What was a handful of decades, compared to that?

And yet every step down the ship’s ramp was like walking through tar.

“Deadlock,” said Megatron, smiling with as much warmth as he ever did, his arms spread in welcome. “I’ve been awaiting your return.”

Drift didn’t return the smile. Deadlock had never been one for smiling, so there was no need to put on airs. Moreover, Megatron’s aura belied the outward welcome. It was a stormy mix of dark blue and vomit green: malaise and suspicion. The manic traces of red that had become ever more prominent towards the end of the war were nowhere to be seen.

Every bot was unique. But, at this point, Drift knew Megatron well enough to know what all of his colors meant. 

Slipping into his old mannerisms was as easy as venting. He inclined his head and said nothing, knowing that Megatron neither wanted nor needed his input until prompted. 

Megatron gave an effusive sweep of his arm, indicating that Drift should follow him. “We have much to discuss,” he said, as he transformed into his alt-mode. A tank, these days. Drift transformed as well, making sure to keep his speed well below its maximum to trail behind.

They arrived at the Primal Palace in the center of Iacon, and returned to root mode. Megatron led him to a luxurious office on the top floor.

“Pardon the decadence,” Megatron said, sitting down in an elaborate bronze armchair. Drift sat down in its twin. “Starscream indulged his vanity quite extensively while he was in charge.” And then Megatron gazed at him for a few kliks, saying nothing.

Drift gazed back resolutely.

“Rodimus is under the impression that you assisted the Neutrals of Crystal City,” Megatron said at last. “Is that where you acquired your swords?”

A thrill of apprehension ran down his spinal strut. Not because of Megatron’s knowledge of his exploits with the Circle of Light, but because of its source. The memo Drift had read before arriving had claimed that the Lost Light crew were imprisoned, but unharmed. 

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “I didn’t torture him,” he said. “Rodimus was all too happy to gloat about it after I revealed your true loyalties.”

That raised a whole new set of questions, but Drift was certain they’d be answered eventually. His time to speak had finally arrived. “After I staged my rebellion against Turmoil, I was found by a mech named Wing. He and I teamed up to save Cybertronians who’d been captured by fleshling slavers. I was injured in the process, and he took me back to Crystal City for treatment. 

“It turned out Lockdown was working with the slavers. He lured me out to meet him by contacting me with Decepticon codes, then tried to convince me to help the fleshlings, claiming that he was acting on your behalf. But I knew he was lying. As if _you _would ever sell Cybertronians off to organics.”

“So you aided the Circle of Light,” Megatron surmised.

“Yes. Partly because I could never allow fleshlings to humiliate any member of our species, and partly because I sensed that they had a part to play in what was to come.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was still the truth.

Megatron made a thoughtful noise. “Of all the outliers in my army, your abilities have always been particularly impressive.”

As refreshing as it was to have his visions taken seriously after dealing with Ratchet’s constant, stubborn skepticism, Drift still couldn’t help the slight flare of annoyance at being referred to as an ‘outlier’.

It must have shown on his face, because Megatron gave him a half-smile and said, “If the only falsehoods you cling to are your old superstitions, then my doubts were unfounded.” Megatron gestured to the Decepticon brand on Drift’s chest. “Are you still proud to wear my brand, Deadlock?”

“I am,” Drift said, and meant it. “You know that I haven’t always agreed with your decisions. But I’ve never once doubted the foundations of the Decepticon Cause, or your right to lead to it.” 

What it had _become _was another story. But the war had driven everyone a little bit crazy, and the responsibilities of leadership were a particularly heavy burden to bear. It was a testament to Megatron’s fortitude that his lapse hadn’t been permanent.

Megatron nodded thoughtfully. The vomit green in his aura was fading away, replaced by an equally ugly shade of mauve. That was not a color that Drift had ever seen from Megatron before. “And yet I perceive that you have concerns of your own.”

“They’re...interpersonal,” Drift admitted.

“Ah,” Megatron said. “It’s only natural to come to care for one’s companions, especially when Autobots are so indulgent of certain _excesses_.” Megatron smiled. “The Autobots from the Lost Light are being treated well. Many have even been released from imprisonment, contingent upon cooperation and good behavior.” Megatron’s optics were knowing as he said, “The medics have been put to work in our repopulation efforts.”

Drift relaxed ever-so-slightly at that. Ratchet was probably coping decently, if he had work to distract him. Even if it was work that he had some ethical objections to.

“As for Rodimus,” Megatron continued, the mauve in his aura becoming more pronounced, “he and I turned out to be a match. We are in the process of creating a newspark.”

Oh. Well. Rodimus was probably...not very happy with that. “I always knew he was important.”

“You care for him,” Megatron stated.

“As a friend,” he confirmed. As an amica, even. Though that was probably ruined forever, now. “There were a few times — moments of weakness — when I gave in to his advances. If I’d known that he was _yours_—”

“Of course,” said Megatron. “And, as always, dispensations exist for deep cover.” A pause. “I’m curious as to what made you change your mind about Rodimus. Your early reports were less than complimentary.”

“All those things are still true,” Drift said. Rodimus’ flaws were so glaring that they were impossible to miss. “But he can also be surprisingly perceptive. And…” Drift couldn’t help but smile, just a little. “His enthusiasm is infectious.” It was an understatement. Rodimus loved with his whole spark, and resisting that love was like trying to escape the gravity of a star. 

Megatron would come to see that for himself, in time. Drift was certain of it.

* * *

Drift wasted no time going to Iacon’s main clinic after Megatron dismissed him. He knew that seeing Ratchet was going to be rough, but he also knew that putting it off wouldn’t solve anything.

It was not Ratchet on duty at the clinic, however.

First Aid’s visor flashed when he caught sight of the brand on Drift’s chest, but he said nothing. His aura just shifted into an even darker shade of purple. Sadness, going by the way that First Aid was holding his frame.

First Aid was curt, but professional. The process was far less invasive than Drift had feared, with First Aid simply placing a sensor device over his chest for several kliks.

“Leave your comm information at the front desk, and we’ll get back to you once we have the results,” said First Aid, once he’d removed the sensor. Then, after Drift had gotten up from the circuit slab, he added, “After everything that’s happened, I guess it just figures that one of the Wreckers would turn out to be a double agent.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” said Drift, dryly.

“You’re going to disappoint Ratchet way more. He watched one of his friends become a homicidal maniac, and now he’s going to learn that another one of his friends never _stopped _being a homicidal maniac.” 

Drift was caught off-guard by the way those words twisted his spark. 

First Aid pressed his assault. “I guess you must actually care about him, judging by the look on your face. So you should leave him alone. He’s not doing well, and seeing you would definitely make it worse.”

* * *

The results came later that solar cycle, and they were exactly what Drift had expected. 

It should have been a moment of vindication. There had been a time, mere deca-cycles in the past, when Drift would’ve taken great pleasure in gloating about it to Ratchet. But now it felt like a hollow victory.

There was a knot of dread in his fuel tank as he rang the buzzer of Ratchet’s apartment. He’d comm’d ahead to no response, but this wasn’t the kind of thing that could be put off.

It became clear, when Ratchet opened the door, that First Aid had been understating matters. 

Ratchet’s aura was a flat, muted grey, and hazy at the outer edges from overcharging. His expression didn’t change, even when his optics slid over the Decepticon brand on Drift’s chest. “Come in, I guess,” he said.

Drift did so, while Ratchet returned to the small sofa near his window and sat down, pouring himself more engex. 

“Are you...okay?” Drift asked, even though it felt a little absurd.

“I’m not doing this.”

“Ratchet…” Drift began.

Ratchet didn’t wait for him to think of something to say. “Listen — I get it. You’ve been playing the long con, and got in too deep. So let’s cut the slag and skip the smalltalk.” Ratchet set his glass of engex down and looked at Drift, his gaze as flat as his aura. “This isn’t about the brand on your chest. This isn’t about _you and me_. There’s just no way in hell that I’m bringing a spark into this world only to watch it become cannon fodder for another few million years of pointless conquest and genocide. So, if you’re not planning to force me, then I humbly request that you leave me the hell alone.”

Drift almost warned him about what this would probably lead to. That it wouldn’t be Ratchet’s life on the line, but one of his friends instead. Drift knew that Ratchet already knew, though, and that it would sound like a threat. Like Drift really was trying to _coerce _him into an intimacy that eclipsed even interfacing. 

Helplessly, Drift said, “I love you.”

“Yeah, kid,” Ratchet said, looking back down at his engex, aura still that awful grey. “I love you too.”

He’d longed for Ratchet to say those words. Ever since that day, all those eons ego, when Ratchet had saved his wretched spark. When Drift had gazed up at Ratchet in wonder and known that they were meant for each other.

But it wasn’t supposed to be like _this_.

At a loss for words, Drift did as Ratchet had asked.

* * *

He ended up at Maccadam’s, sitting alone at a booth right at the back of the bar. He’d bought himself energon rather than engex, since he couldn’t deactivate his FIM chip. And that was a very good thing at the moment. Getting overcharged when he was so on-edge was sure to end in oilshed, with the way that both Autobot and Decepticon patrons had shot him hostile looks. Blurr had done nothing but glare while dispensing the energon from the tap.

“Hello, Drift,” said a familiar voice, and Drift looked up to see that a familiar orange mech with very distinctive eyebrows had sat down across from him.

“Rung?” he asked, then felt immediately stupid for it.

Rung gave him a smile that looked a little sad. As usual, his aura was difficult to pin down. Translucent, and too rapidly shifting to parse. “They determined that I was of no use as a prisoner, and posed no security threat, so they let me out. I should be fine, though I've been told that I'll experience quite a bit of pain if I attempt to transform.”

He didn’t think he’d ever actually seen Rung’s alt-mode, so that probably wasn’t going to be much of an adjustment. “Did you miss the brand that I’m wearing?”

“No.”

Drift huffed out an exvent. “Then I don’t get why you’re talking to me.”

They lapsed into silence for a few beats, before Rung said, “Deep cover can be very emotionally taxing. I’ve had several patients who required care after being extracted.” Rung looked down at the half-full glass of engex that he was holding. “The most difficult part is usually the realization that their enemies are complex individuals with vibrant inner lives. Their missions often involve forming intimate friendships. Sometimes, they even fall in love. It’s a messy business.” He looked at Drift, eyebrows drawn together in a concerned frown. “Times of great stress can be particularly dangerous for those with a history of addiction, especially if they’ve lost their support network.”

Drift stared at Rung. At the compassion in his optics — the lack of judgement. It would be so easy for Drift to sneer at him, saying that he wasn’t some weak, pathetic Autobot in need of coddling. Indeed, a few centuries ago, that’s exactly what he would’ve done, before pulling a gun on him for good measure.

But the thing was, before Rung had started talking to him, Drift had been getting the _itch_. He knew that Swindle was somewhere around here, and could probably be relied upon to have a hit of Syk.

Drift had always had some way of coping, before. For a long time, it had been with violence. No time to think about Syk when he was on the front lines, slagging as many Autobots as he could. And then, when that kind of violence was no longer feasible, he’d turned to the meditations he’d learned in Crystal City. 

On the Lost Light, though, he’d gotten into a new habit. Whenever the itch got bad — when meditation wasn’t cutting it — he’d gone to hang out with Rodimus. And when it got really, really bad, he’d gone to Ratchet. 

But now both of them were out of reach. Rodimus, because he was _Megatron’s_, and Ratchet because he didn’t want to have Drift around anymore. 

“My door is always open, of course, if you want to talk,” Rung continued. “But, if you explain the situation to Ratchet, I’m certain that he’ll make accommodations. He cares very deeply about your wellbeing.”

“Have you always been this presumptuous?” Drift asked, though the words lacked any real bite. 

“Yes,” said Rung. “Particularly with those who I consider to be friends.” 

Drift stood up from the booth. He couldn’t quite bring himself to thank Rung as he left the bar. 

* * *

It came as something of a surprise that Ratchet even answered the door this time.

“I’m sorry,” Drift said, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. “I swear I’m not here to force you into anything. And if you want me to leave, I will. But…” He drew in a ragged invent. “I’m worried that I’ll _use _if I’m alone right now, and I don’t know where else to go.”

“Okay, kid,” said Ratchet. His voice was still as flat as before, but the barest hint of blue swirled into his aura. “You can recharge on the couch.”


	10. Interlude: Cyclonus

Cyclonus could _feel _their newspark. 

Fleeting impressions of emotions, mostly. Stray thoughts within his own processor that he recognized as primitive and _other_. But he welcomed them. Basked in them. The tangible fruits of his union with Tailgate. 

Megatron would pay for the part he’d played in compelling the bond, but Cyclonus couldn’t bring himself to regret the outcome.

He could already tell that their newspark had a fierce spirit, just like Tailgate. It was just a pity that he would emerge into a Cybertron that was so diminished from its glorious past. There was nothing quite like living in this vastly inferior Iacon to remind Cyclonus of all that had been lost.

Shamefully, sparks started to leak from his optics. A propensity to weep was another feature of his progressing condition, he’d discovered. That, along with his perpetual exhaustion, was easily the least pleasant aspect of the whole affair. 

“Thinking about our Cybertron, again?” Tailgate asked as he walked through the doorway of their recharge room. He always came when Cyclonus descended into these bouts of melancholy. 

“It's absurd that our newspark will be forged in Iacon, but will only ever know of the Celestial Spires from stories and songs,” Cyclonus said. To dwell in an Iacon that lacked the most glorious of all Cybertronian landmarks was like rubbing rust into an open wound.

Tailgate joined him on the other side of the recharge slab, concern pulsing through the bond. “Can I do anything to help you feel better?”

At once, warmth bloomed in Cyclonus’ interface array. The sudden shift between extreme emotional states was another disconcerting feature of his condition, though sometimes the results could be...enjoyable.

Tailgate’s visor dimmed slightly, and he reached out to trail his fingers over Cyclonus’ upper thigh. “Open for me?”

Cyclonus shivered under the teasing touch, and obliged him.


	11. Miscommunication (Drift/Ratchet)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings: suicidal ideation, consensual but under-negotiated rough sex.

It wasn’t a surprise, exactly. 

Ratchet and Drift had gotten into enough arguments about enough topics for Ratchet to see that Drift didn’t really _get _what being an Autobot meant. Oh, Drift could spout off the platitudes just fine — could even write speeches about them for Rodimus to deliver — but he hadn’t really internalized them. 

Ratchet had thought, at the time, that this was just a classic case of defection by default. Where somebody who by all accounts should have remained a Decepticon decided to join the other side out of some specific, personal reason. Like befriending or falling in love with an Autobot, being on the run from the DJD for some ridiculous ‘crime’ like ‘contributory negligence’, being the subject of unethical experiments, or having one of their Decepticon friends be punished or executed for a ‘crime’ that they weren’t guilty of.

They often joined Autobot teams that operated outside of the usual Autobot rules, like the Wreckers. And this had certainly been true of Drift. Ratchet had been able to see how much Drift chafed under the rules of Autobot conduct that restricted him from resolving conflict the way Decepticons typically did. He’d gotten better about it after his 'religious awakening', but even then it had occasionally shone through. He had once even come _this close_ to attacking Ratchet during a particularly bad fit of pique, after discovering that the residents of Crystal City were missing.

So, it wasn’t a surprise. But it still hurt. For the same reason that Drift’s absence from the Lost Light had hurt. 

At some point, Drift had wormed his way into Ratchet’s spark in a way that nobody else had ever really managed. 

So yeah. Living with Drift was awkward as hell, but it was better than the alternative.

Ratchet knew that Drift’s struggles with addiction were no joke. A lot of bots had turned to circuit boosters as a way of coping with a life on the street, but Drift was an example of the opposite. He’d ended up on the street as a _result _of his addiction. A forged speedster as elegant and beautiful as him would’ve had a promising future career. But he’d been practically a newspark when one of his fellow trainee racers had offered him a hit of Syk at a party, and the tragic spiral had begun. A promising young racer had wound up as another Empty in the Dead End.

After everything that had happened, Ratchet didn’t think he could bear to see Drift succumb to that spiral again. Which apparently meant living together even though they barely talked.

That was how Ratchet knew that this wasn’t just some line Drift had fed him. Drift certainly wasn’t above using manipulation to get what he wanted, but there was no way that being around Ratchet was a pleasant experience for Drift at this particular point in time. In fact, Ratchet was fairly sure that Drift would’ve turned to Rodimus instead, if Rodimus hadn’t currently been in Megatron’s clutches.

Drift knew how to push Rodimus’ buttons so well that they’d be reconciled quickly enough.

But instead he was stuck with Ratchet, who was currently sucking the joy out of every room that had the misfortune of having him in it. 

Like right now. Ratchet was sitting at the table, pretending to go over documents for work, while Drift sat on the floor with his legs crossed, pretending to meditate. Or maybe just failing at it. Ratchet would never claim to be an expert on woo-woo nonsense, but he knew that relaxation was an essential part of the process. And the tension in Drift’s body was obvious to the trained optic.

There were so many things hanging between them. Mutual resentment. Drift’s ever-simmering rage, sloppily concealed behind various facades. And of course, the little subject of their spark compatibility. Ratchet knew that it was only a matter of time before Drift brought it up again. That he was just stalling because he wanted to give Ratchet the illusion that either of them had a choice. 

The inevitability of Ratchet’s eventual capitulation was like rancid energon running through his lines, because he knew full well that _he _wouldn’t be the one to pay the price for his stubbornness. 

It was a pity that they’d been fitted with I/D chips instead of inhibitor spikes. At least with the inhibitor spikes, the option to just transform and be done with everything was a possibility.

Suddenly, Drift was standing on the other side of the table, looking down at him with burning optics.

“How long?” Drift gritted out, voice dangerously soft.

Ratchet set down his datapad and sighed. “Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”

Drift snarled, his hands curled into shaking fists at his sides. “How long have you been thinking about _killing yourself_?”

Ratchet huffed out a cynical laugh. ‘Suicidal’ was probably one of those ‘universal colors’ that Drift had told him about. 

“You think this is _funny_?” Drift yelled, slamming one of his fists down on the table, which dented with an unpleasant whine.

Ratchet gazed impassively at the disfigured metal. “These days, I’ll take my laughs where I can get them.”

Drift lapsed into a furious silence, then stalked out of the apartment. A klik later, Ratchet heard the squeal of his tires as he sped away.

* * *

Ratchet didn’t see him again until after his shift was over, twelve cycles later. He was sitting on the sofa, holding a datapad that he wasn’t actually reading. Ratchet was relieved to see that there was no sign of him having partaken in any circuit boosters.

“Feeling better?” Ratchet asked.

Drift’s face twisted. So that was a no, then.

Ratchet walked over to the energon dispenser. The dent in the table was gone, he noticed.

“...Am I making it worse?” Drift asked, once Ratchet had a full glass in hand.

Ratchet sighed. “They’re just _thoughts_, kid. I promise that I’m not going anywhere until my spark burns itself out.” Or until Megatron decided that he’d outlived his usefulness. 

“You’re dodging the question.”

He was, he supposed. “If you mean by living here? Then no. If you mean in general, because I know you’ll help Megatron force other people into reproductive servitude? Then yeah. I can’t say it’s helping.”

Drift’s grip on the datapad tightened. 

Ratched downed the rest of the cup, then said, “Want to frag?”

He couldn’t deny a certain dull amusement at the shock on Drift’s face. The expression was gone almost immediately, though, replaced by a frown. “You’re not joking,” he stated.

“No,” said Ratchet. “I’m not.”

“Right now?”

“Sure.” It seemed like a better idea than lapsing into more uncomfortable silence, at any rate.

The frown deepened into a scowl, but Drift still put his datapad down and pushed himself to his feet. And then he was stalking towards Ratchet in a way that was almost predatory. Ratchet felt a thrill go up his spinal strut, and wasn’t sure if it was from fear or excitement. 

Drift pinned him to the wall and kissed him. It was a harsh, clumsy thing, but it still got Ratchet’s fans going. Nobody had kissed him since Thunderclash, a few thousand years back. 

Drift broke away and grabbed him by the wrist, steering them both into the recharge room. The apartment had come with a double recharge slab, though Drift had still been recharging on the couch. It was good that they wouldn’t have to interface on the floor.

Drift was taking the lead, pushing Ratchet down onto the slab and climbing between his spread legs. His hand went right to Ratchet’s panel, kneading roughly into the warming metal. Ratchet transformed it away in response, retracting his valve cover. Drift put two of his fingers inside, and his scowl returned. Ratchet could tell from the burning stretch that he wasn’t nearly lubricated enough. Maybe the next time they did this they could take their time getting warmed up, but that wasn’t what Ratchet was after right now. 

So he activated manual lubrication. The burning went away almost immediately. Drift sunk his fingers in deeper, spreading them further apart. Ratchet’s valve throbbed at the stimulation.

Drift withdrew his fingers and shifted forward, the head of his spike pressing against the rim of Ratchet’s valve. He held Ratchet’s gaze, optics burning with rage and hunger, as if waiting for Ratchet to call it off. 

But Ratchet didn’t say a word.

And then Drift was inside him, sheathed to the hilt in a single thrust. Ratchet let out an involuntary grunt. He’d never had anything but fingers in his valve before, and he couldn’t tell if it actually felt good or not. But before he could wrap his processor around it, Drift was already pulling out and thrusting in again. Ratchet shuddered. The shock of sensation was mostly pleasure, he decided. 

Drift set a steady, brutal pace, his thrusts just on the cusp of being too hard. The look on his face was an angry sort of determination, optics bright and unwavering, fixed on Ratchet’s face. It was too much. Ratchet closed his optics so he could just focus on the sensations coursing through his body. The hard drag of Drift’s spike over aching internal nodes, the burn from the strength of his thrusts, the steady, inexorable buildup of charge. 

“Look at me,” Drift said, his voice a low growl. 

Ratchet opened his optics, looking up to find that Drift’s expression had slackened slightly in pleasure. Drift’s engine revved, his thrusts coming faster. Ratchet could hear his own fans whining in his audio receptors.

Drift only broke optic contact to lean forward, and for a nanoklik Ratchet thought that he was going to kiss him again. But Drift’s mouth went lower instead, to Ratchet’s collar armor. The rhythm of Drift’s thrusts finally stuttered as he bit down hard. A bright, sharp point of pain that was soon drowned out by the ecstasy of their overload.

Once the charge had finally run its course, Drift collapsed on top of Ratchet with a clang. Ratchet winced as the spike inside him depressurized, leaving behind a dull, throbbing discomfort. 

Drift was starting to shake. 

Melancholy settled heavily in Ratchet’s spark. Guilt as well, when Drift let out a strangled, poorly-muffled sob. He knew exactly what Drift must’ve wanted their first time to be like: slow, sweet, and intimate. If he’d actually been looking out for Drift, he would’ve waited to ask for this until they could actually have that together. 

His thoughts were starting to get fuzzy, like he was overcharged. The transfluid, he realized idly. It was significantly more energy-dense than regular energon, and Ratchet had started this on a tank that was nearly full. 

He lifted up a heavy arm to stroke his hand over Drift’s back. It took a few kliks for Drift to stop shaking. By then, the ache in Ratchet’s valve had mostly dissipated. The ache in his spark had gotten worse.

“I should leave,” Drift murmured, even though he made no move to push away. 

“Don’t,” Ratchet said. It was always easier to be honest about this slag when he was overcharged. “I need you here.” He let out a shaky exvent. “I needed _this_.”

Drift said nothing.

If Ratchet were the sort to indulge in guilt trips, he might’ve told Drift about how he’d been planning to come find him. How, if he couldn’t convince Drift to come back to the Lost Light, he would’ve stayed with him. How he’d fantasized like a silly newspark about all the adventures they could have. 

Instead, Ratchet said, “Better to be miserable together, right?”

That earned him an exvent that sounded pretty close to a laugh. “Right,” Drift rasped.

Ratchet decided that he’d count it as a victory.


End file.
